It was a long slog of a day, his first full one in Stirrington. Hilary took the latest train back that he could, with another string of apologies for Lenox before he went. More hopefully, Crook said, “Never mind him. These London types are weak willed, when it comes to politics. There’s fighting left to be done.” Strangely, because Crook was so gloomy these words meant much more than they would have coming from a more sanguine character.

Walking around the town that evening, Lenox felt heartened. He had given four speeches that day; the first, before a handful of shopkeepers on the edge of town, had been a timorous, uncertain homily about the importance of lending one another a hand. The line he had concluded with, “Friends before treasure!” had earned him only a few disapproving stares, not the applause he had hoped for, and he only realized belatedly that the men in the crowd were primarily concerned with their treasure-of friends they had enough. He had gained confidence as he went, though, and having walked around Stirrington all day, he now recognized some of the faces and many of the shops he passed.

He stopped into a chop house and had a supper of lamb and wine, talking the whole while with several men at the bar. At first they were taciturn, but Lenox did have one gift as a politician, even though he hadn’t had time to develop more than a raw way about him-he could listen. He liked to listen, in fact. When these men found that one of the quality was interested in what they said, they found their voices. Primarily they talked about Roodle.

“Bleeding Robert Roodle,” said a thin and thin-voiced one, “I was workin’ in his brewery and lost my job.”

“Did you get another one?”

“Well-yes,” said the man, in that particular grudging way of the English, “but no thanks to ’im.”